Stains
by bremie
Summary: Some things you don't get to forget.
1. Shadows

**1**

Buck pours him another shot of whiskey, sliding it to him without a word. The nights are cruel to the hood. Something visits him often, something awful. Buck must know better than to ask what.

Dallas downs the drink without hesitation. Anything to survive until morning. Even if that means bringing one of the girls to his room with him. In the beginning they talk too much, try too hard, cling too tightly. But when he takes them upstairs, if they can distract him, they can have him for a night.

 _A hand trails down his cheek, to his lips. Teeth nibble at his ear, whispering, "I'll make it all better."_

He grinds his teeth together, slamming some change onto the bar. "Hurry the hell up, for Chrissake."

The bartender doesn't argue with him. If Dallas was in a decent mindset, then maybe he'd poke fun at him. But even the stupidest of JDs wouldn't start with him right then and there. There's something in those icy eyes of his that would make even the dead shudder. Just pour him another. Preaching to the hood only makes things worse.

He craves the burn. The way his insides sting as the poison circulates through his veins. Though the feeling...his mind numb, his vision blurry, his memories incoherent...is just something he doesn't know how to survive without.

After his third, maybe fourth, shot is when he goes to the girl who's been trying to get his attention for the pass hour or so. She blinks her long lashes, nervously brushes her chest into his side, mumbles, "My friends call me Ash..."

The corners of his mouth twitch. There's nothing friendly about what they both have in mind for each other. The girl needs time. She's had enough liquid courage to confront him, but not enough to touch him. Not yet.

He doesn't care about what she has to say and he doubts she even knows what she's gabbing about. They both have been sipping away, him more than her, and she keeps bringing up some other guy. Someone cheated. They both lied. He lets her know he's not a fuckin' priest and this surely isn't confession. His hands only know how to sin.

Her fingers graze him with uncertainty at first, like he's electricity and she's playing with water. So the hood takes control, leads her upstairs and lays her down on his stained mattress. The cheap springs groan under their weight, the walls are too close, the room is claustrophobic. The girl starts running her hands in all the right directions, moves her lips with experience. He can tell she's no angel, and he wonders if she knows he's worse than that. A hollow corpse. A man living off a stolen heartbeat.

Her hands are trembling at the buckle of his belt. She already has her clothes off and her eyes linger over his bare chest and the thick gashes of damaged skin. She doesn't touch them. The girls never do. They won't ask about them, neither. He likes that.

"Can I?" The girl bites her lip, focusing on his buckle again. "I wanna make you feel good..."

 _Claws rip his shirt off, throw his pants to the floor. Cut his skin open. Chapped lips roam his neck._

 _"I'm gonna make you feel like you've never felt before..."_

Instead of answering, he pulls the belt off himself, his jeans and briefs follow shortly after. He keeps his eyes open, watching the girl work him, the tip of a bottle of rum on his lips again. He hears nothing. Not a syllable.

Her nails dig into his back, her mouth attacks his own, moaning and sighing. He drags his hands to all the right places, how he was taught to. All the nerves in his body go numb.

 _Fingers are long. Warm. They travel to places they don't belong._

 _"You know, boys become men in the laps of women. You wanna be a man, don't you?"_

Something goes wrong. It holds onto him and pulls him under, there's no gasping for air. No escape. He pushes her naked body off of him; it isn't working. It's too strong tonight, too much, too fucking much.

A light gasp sneaks pass her lips. Strands of her hair sticks to her sweaty skin. Her eyes are wide and confused. Nervous. He tosses her dress where his body previously was.

"Get out."

Her voice is strong, confident. But her hands are shaking again. "Why? Did I do somethin' wrong?"

Dallas stumbles a bit as he tugs his clothes back on. She watches him. If she thought she understood him before, she's entirely lost now. He can tell by her stare that's she's hurt. He knows girls like her. They're attracted to damaged goods, something about it is appealing to them. They're fools.

She'll never know him. Never know the parts of his past cling to him like his own damn shadow. She'll start to believe that she wants to really know him, romanticize the hell out of it all, and he'll show her exactly why she should stick to the rich guys with their Corvettes and trust funds.

"Dallas?" She scrambles off the mattress. "Where're you going?"

He doesn't bother to answer. Just grabs the nearly empty bottle and slams the door shut. He'll find his way outside and pretend like he doesn't know where he's going to end up. It's his safe place. The kid knows. Not about him, not his story, but goddamn, the kid just knows.

* * *

The street lights guide him. His vision is poor but he knows the way by heart. The uneven sidewalk makes the trek harder, causing him to trip and knock over trash cans. Eventually the neighborhood dogs start barking. Maybe he'll get lucky. Maybe someone'll call the cops and cuff him like the no-good hood he is. Yeah, they really know how to make it stop for a while.

When he gets there, something about it instantly makes him feel a little at ease. Not exactly better, but close as it'll ever get.

He stumbles by the ashes of a fire, only a small string of smoke rises from it. Hiding in the tall weeds is the old backseat of a car, haggard, with gashes of stuffing peaking out. Beer cans, cigarette buds, and jagged pieces of glass are scattered across the lot. None of that matters. The only thing he can focus on is the lengthy boy using his jean jacket as a blanket. His chest rises slowly, his knees and forehead are resting against the car seat. His spine sticks out, bony enough to count each vertebrae through his shirt. Dallas likes seeing him that way. Fearless.

He kneels in the dirt. After he drains the last drop of rum, he tosses the bottle behind him. It crashes with a splintering battle cry, causing the sleeping boy to jolt up, searching the lot with wide, cautious eyes.

"Shit," Dallas mutters, absentmindedly searching his pockets for a Kool. "Didn't wanna wake ya."

"Dal?" The boy asks, his voice strangely deeper and drowsy, still needing to adjust. "When'd you get here?"

He shrugs, starring at the street. The concept of time is too much for him right then and there, in his drunken state of mind. All he knows is that the darkness means it's still nighttime. Three in the morning? Maybe midnight? He has no idea.

He feels dizzy. Tired. His eyelids yearn to close but his heart is trying to punch its way out of his chest. Johnny watches him, almost like he gets why Dallas does what he does. Why he insists on drinking himself to sleep nearly every night.

"I knew you'd be here." His mouth is dry. Everything else is numb. "It's not somewhere you should be sleepin'. I told ya I didn't want you sleepin' here."

Johnny pulls his jacket on, mumbling, "I don't mind."

"I do." He bites back. "It ain't safe."

The Cade boy nods. He looks at his feet, teeth biting his lip. "You should get some sleep, Dal. You look tired."

He ignores him. His eyes say it all. A nameless anger, a boiling hatred, for anything and anyone. Something lurks inside him, waiting for the one thing that will be able to push him over the edge. But what? Hoods like him care for nothing. Not even themselves.

"Alright..." Johnny rubs at his eye, yawning. His foot is tapping against the ground, slowly, nervously.

He lights a cigarette with a bent match. After a long drag, he passes it to Dallas. He takes it without a word.

Smoke chases after his words as he asks, "Ya believe in God?"

Dallas flicks the ash. "Why?"

Johnny shrugs. "I don't know. Guess it'd be nice. Ya know, thinkin' that there's somethin' that gave you the life ya got for a reason. That maybe someone's lookin' out for ya."

He smirks, it's humorless, but he replays that question over and over in his head. Does he believe in God? Some kind of higher power that cares? Maybe one day he'll tell Johnny about the kids he met in the foster homes they sent him to. Or the stories behind the harden faces he met in the big house. Ask them what they think about God.

But today is not that day.

"The gangs lookin' out for ya," He says instead, sucks the cigarette dry before rubbing it out on his shoe. And he'll be there for him, until the last breath he takes. But he doesn't say it. "Ain't that enough?"

His cheeks fluster a bit. "Course, Dal. I didn't mean it like that."

He finds Johnny talking to him about religion strange. He isn't Ponyboy. He doesn't think so fucking much about stuff that doesn't matter to him, like school and novels or sports and sunsets. And Johnny knows that. They don't open up to each other - not like that. Sometimes Johnny might tell him about the look his father gives him, full of disgust and so much fury, and maybe he'll mention the nasty words his mother hisses at him through stained teeth. Dallas understands, and the kid knows it.

"I like thinkin' that bad things happen for a reason," Johnny explains, cheeks still flushed. "That was all I meant."

"Bad shit happens 'cause of bad people. That's the damn reason."

His voice is sharp, unstable. Breath laced with rum. Fists curling with that unspoken rage. Dallas doesn't have to ask, he knows what he reminds Johnny of. Sees his reflection in those somber eyes - almost a spitting image of the kid's worst nightmare. Only darker.

"I oughta go." He pushes himself up, nearly tipping over in the process. "Go back to sleep, kid."

"Where ya goin'?"

Dallas shrugs.

He bites his lip again. "You...you ain't gonna drink more, are ya?"

"Shit, Johnny," He almost laughs. Almost. "You reckon I need more?"

He can see something snap inside the kid.

"I don't get it, man. It doesn't fix anythin'. You'll still wake up with the same problems." His hands are trembling again. "It doesn't...it ain't healthy."

His mind is cruel. Loud. The alcohol helps, most of the time. Other times, he needs something stronger.

But Dallas doesn't tell him that. He doesn't want Johnny hearing that - like the kid needs anything else to worry about. He deals with it, keeps it under control as much as he can. And if that means getting boozed out of his wits every night, then that's what he'll do.

He doesn't elaborate. Just sends a quick hand out to ruffle his shaggy, dark hair. Pretends not to notice Johnny flinch.

"I'll see ya around, kid."

They both know it's not a promise.


	2. The Joker, The Thief

**2**

He has both windows down, breeze biting at his skin, racing through stop signs and skipping over curves. Doesn't slow down, not even for the flock of teenagers trying to cross over to the burger joint. A few scream, one flicks him the bird, another tries to chase after him. The corners of his mouth tilt a bit. He feels alright today.

"What a bunch of candyasses," A dry voice beside him remarks, narrowed eyes gleaming with humor. "Ain't they aware jaywalkin' is a very serious crime?"

Some might call them reckless. Just as stupid as they are dangerous. They never seem to mention experienced. Dallas knows that his passenger has been routinely checking the rearview mirror. Cautious and calm. Always expecting sirens. He likes that.

"Reckon we go back and let 'em know? Sell a couple Bibles while we're at it."

Mac chuckles, holding a bottle of whiskey hostage at his lips. "Hell, Winston, I doubt we'd even be able to get our hands on a Bible without lightnin' strikin' us dead." He takes a gulp, wincing through the burn. "'Sides, these days I'm sellin' a different kind of faith."

"That right," Dallas mumbles, his fingers yearning to find a loose cigarette.

The bottle almost hides his smirk. "Ya know how it is."

The hood does know how it is. You won't lose it. That restlessness. It's like a sore that never stops oozing. They call it freedom - when they finally let you walk out those barbed wire fences. Both of them know better. It's doesn't last long.

"Trust me, man, it's no Jesus but it just might save that rotting soul of yours."

He doesn't trust him. Doesn't trust anyone.

"Redemption ain't an interest of mine."

With a crooked smile, Mac reaches for his jean pocket. "Ya sure 'bout that?"

From the corner of his eye, they look like cigarettes. He knows they aren't. Not the kind of smoke he's always craving. Dallas glances at the bottle of whiskey nested between his legs. He was alright today. His head felt right for once. Quiet.

It won't last long.

"How much?"

"On the house."

The hood can't help but laugh. He considers slamming the breaks and dragging his friend out of the car. Knocking his teeth in. Dallas likes cons - he really does. They know how to amuse him. The sweet talk, the lies that are as smooth as velvet. It's when they finally realize who he is, what he is - that's his favorite part.

"Don't give me that, Winston." He looks him dead in the eyes. Placid. "No foolin', man. I owe ya, and what you did for me...this ain't nothin'."

They don't talk about it. Mac refuses to look at him, fingers tightening around the neck of the bottle. Shame, anger, disgust. He doesn't need to look at the guy to know it's consuming him.

 _Rough fingers. Steady, experienced. They clench a homemade blade, push against the curve of his neck._

 _"Asked you once, boy. Won't ask again."_

He shrugs. "Was a long time ago."

"Must've been, cause the Winston I knew wouldn't think twice 'bout a good time." It should be funny. Neither laugh. "But I get it. Ain't gonna force ya or nothin'."

The irony has one hell of a right hook, Mac winces at bit. It disappears as quick as it came. Dallas doesn't say anything. Doesn't see a point. Trauma like that doesn't heal. It'll bleed and fester and scab - but it won't ever heal.

They've been driving for hours, no destination in mind. But the air changes. It bites harder now, specks of their past lingering. The hood watches Mac - leg bouncing anxiously, jaw locked. Yet his face stays the same. Careless, hard. Just another delinquent from the wrong side of town. He sees right through it.

Mac ducks when he throws his pack of matches at him. They smack against the window and onto the floor.

"What? Thought you said somethin' 'bout a good time."

A boyish grin grows across his face. Makes him look young. Innocent. Both of which they both should be, but really aren't. Not anymore.

"I sure did."

* * *

The sun is barely peeking over the horizon by the time he speeds up to the gas pump. The only remnants of his day are the empty whiskey bottle on the floor and some stubborn ash on the leather seats. His head feels fuzzy.

The guy looks at his ride and whistles. His hand reaches out to stroke the paint, but he stops himself. "Golly, sir, she sure is a beauty."

The hood recognizes the voice instantly. He smirks. "Think ya can fuel her up without gettin' a woody or do I gotta find somebody else?"

Soda tenses up, turns his head a little too quickly. "Dallas?"

"No, it's Houston, his twin fuckin' brother."

He smiles, it's gentle and effortless. Nearly contagious.

It doesn't last long.

"It's been a while." Soda starts to pump the gas, eyes looking anywhere but him. "The gang started thinkin' we'd never see ya again."

He can't help but shrug. "Sorry to disappoint."

"Who'd ya snatch her from?" He has the guts to ask, but keeps his attention focused on the pump.

Dallas digs for some cash, a hint of a smile on his lips. "Don't think I like what you're implyin'."

His old friend says nothing. He's too quiet, too still. Uncomfortable. Doesn't pester him with any questions about his car - doesn't ask to take it for a spin down the block. Hell, he doesn't even try to open her up and look at the engine.

The hood stares him down. Makes him squirm a bit, a nervousness that just doesn't fit Soda.

"What ain't you tellin' me, Curtis?"

* * *

He remembers shifting gears too fast, the engine groaning. The smell of burnt rubber. Knuckles sickly white, clenching the steering wheel too tight. Swerving too quick, side of the front tire rubbing on the curb before jumping over onto grass.

He says nothing at first. Forces their front door open, it swings wide, the handle smacking a dent into the drywall. The television is on, some childish cartoon, and the air reeks like chicken.

A sharp shriek pierces his ears, along with the sound of glass shattering. Both equally annoying to him, like nails on a chalk board.

It takes him by surprise. Not the cooking pan she has secured with both her hands, holding it like a baseball bat. A weapon - like he's the intruder.

"Who the hell are you?" The woman demands, her tone weary.

The hood ignores her question. Barks out, "Where is he?"

"Where is - " She shakes her head with disbelief, her big eyes refusing to wander away from him. "If you aren't out that door in two seconds I swear -"

He laughs. It's humorless. He can feel his jaw clenching uncontrollably. "What? Huh? What the fuck are ya gonna do, sweetheart? Swing your little frying pan at me?"

A flush creeps across her cheeks, her stance weakens a bit. Dallas can practically see the fear taking control. He's never laid a hand on a woman before. Not even when Sylvia tried to whack his brains out with a tire iron. He's done plenty of horrible, unforgivable things in his life. That's never going to be one.

He tries to calm himself down.

"I'm lookin' for Johnny Cade."

The energy changes. Her face twists with anger. She opens her mouth to say something, but doesn't get the chance.

"Dally?"

The youngest Curtis looks about the same, but his voice is a little deeper. Rusty hair a little longer. His eyes are wide, unnerved, shifting between the two.

"Laura - it's okay. He's a buddy of ours."

They start to talk.

The hood hears none of it.

It's awkward, tense, but the kid forces out, "Hi, Dal."

* * *

It goes something like this.

"Who?"

It's a simple question, blunt. Empty. Yet his icy eyes are burning and burning and burning. The kid must feel it - tries to fold into himself. It looks uncomfortable. Agonizing.

Johnny won't look at him. His voice is coarse. "Pony was just talkin' 'bout some new movie they're gonna be showin' tonight. The one with Clint Eastwood, I think."

The hood feels his jaw clenching too tight. Sharp pain starts shooting to his temples, to his knuckles - he punched something, doesn't remember what, blood drips down his fingers onto the porch.

They sit there quietly. The street lamp in front of the Curtis house is flickering.

"You oughta get that wrapped," the kid says, eyes still refusing to meet his. "Laura, she's a nurse or somethin'. Sure she wouldn't mind lookin' at it for ya."

Dallas felt alright today.

He looks over at the boy. His one arm is in a sling, his left leg is smothered inside a thick cast. A pair of crutches are awkwardly sprawled next to him. The hood knows Johnny is trying not to let him see the damage done to his face - but Dallas grabs him by the chin as gently as he can. Shades of blue, purple, yellow, red. They blend like watercolors. His one eye is completely swelled shut, the other bloodshot from bursting veins. A busted lip, swollen knot at his temple. A concussion, no doubt.

The Cade boy pulls away from him a little too quick, hisses in pain.

He looks empty. Drained.

"It wasn't your old man. Know how I know that? 'Cause the last time he touched ya - you know what I did, Johnny?" He laughs. It feels good, remembering. The sound it made - bone against metal. "I bet you could guess. He didn't look too good the last time you saw him, did he?"

Johnny doesn't react.

"I ain't gonna ask again."

A minute passes. Then another.

"Darry ain't gonna be too happy 'bout those tire marks on the lawn. Or the hole in the wall."

The hood is too familiar with this game. Avoidance. But he plays, each and every time, and he always wins.

"Yeah, I bet Superman is gonna be cryin' real hard that his house won't be on the cover of _Homes and Gardens_."

The kid shakes his head, sighs. "Don't joke 'bout him, Dal. Darry works real hard. He's got enough goin' on, it ain't right. He don't deserve it."

"But you deserve gettin' beat into a fuckin' pulp like clockwork, is that it Johnny?" He can feel himself loosing his control - he doesn't care anymore. "Have ya seen yourself? Huh? You look like somethin' they found in barn of the Plainfield Butcher, and I'm just supposed to turn a blind fuckin' eye? Fuck that. Start talkin'."

Intimidation, exhaustion, pain - Dallas can see it overwhelming his friend. Watches him rub the tender bruise on his cheek with his good hand. Nervous habit. The hood manages to get Johnny to mumble, "It don't matter, alright? It just - it was my fault and this is my problem, okay? Just drop it."

"It don't matter?" He almost wishes Johnny didn't say anything at all. It fuels him, scorching white heat pumping trough his veins. "Don't fuckin' matter? Ya could of been killed, for fuck sake. And then what, huh? It just won't fuckin' matter none? I don't ever wanna hear you say that shit. Ya don't wanna talk - I ain't gonna make ya. 'Cause I will find the son of a bitch and I'm gonna make 'em look real fuckin' pretty. That's a promise, kid."

Both his hands start to tremble, his one knee begins to bounce in a trance. "I ain't a kid! Ya hear? I'm seventeen I don't - I don't need ya to fight my battles for me no more. I can't - I ain't a kid, so just...just stop treatin' me like one."

The wind starts to pick up. Dead leaves and loose trash get trapped and dragged across the street. The dingy old window shutters creak. The Cade boy flinches when they slam shut. Dallas acts like he didn't notice. It might be the one thing he always does that the kid appreciates.

The hood grabs the keys out of his pocket, fumbles them around in his palm.

"Seventeen or seventy." Dallas takes one last look at him. "It makes not one goddamn difference to me."


	3. Debts

**There is a missing scene - will be fixed by tomorrow. This is unedited. Life has not been kind recently, I apologize for the slow update.**

* * *

 **3**

"I'm a changed man, Winston."

The hood has to smile at that, teeth stained red from blood. His gums are dripping with the warm liquid, as is his nose and busted lip. He knows exactly what he looks like. What he feels like. The bar flies take brisk glances at him, caution in their eyes. All of a sudden their foamy pints become interesting, their shoulders tense. Something dwells deep inside him - something twisted and cruel and angry. It yearns to _give_ them a reason to fear him.

"That was inspiring." He chugs his third beer, tastes nothing but stale barely and rust. Icy eyes slice through his old rival, dissecting him. "But I ain't got a badge and I really don't give a fuck. I need information."

"What you need is a shower and to calm down," Shepard retorts slowly, glaring. "Got any idea what you look like right now? Slaughter a family or two on your stroll over here? Christ - you're gettin' blood all over the fuckin' place, scarin' my customers."

It is a difficult thing to do - surprising a man like Dallas. He seen too much for that. Yet it still doesn't sound right when he repeats, "Your customers?"

"Lost your damn mind but I'm glad your ears still work." He cusses under his breath, starts scrubbing the cigarette ash and blood off the counter. "Yeah, _my_ customers. Bought this joint not too long after I got out. Ain't much but it's...quiet. Make an honest livin' here."

The hood stares at him. Scarred knuckles mold around a wet cloth, squeezing the dirty water into a bucket. Heedful eyes glance towards the patrons every now and then like clockwork. Besides the mellow country tune coming from the jukebox the place is silent.

"Honest gets boring real fast."

The accusation is blatant.

He says nothing, but the hood can tell he is clenching his teeth. They both are wired the same way - gamble with their lives and fight until their fists go numb not only because they like to but _need_ to. Men like them don't do honest because they can't handle quiet.

"King of Tulsa, right?" Dallas chuckles tauntingly. "Some still call you that. If only they saw you now...cleanin' up vomit for a livin'."

Shepard slams his curled fist onto the counter, jaw spasming. The hood watches as his entire demeanor morphs into the man he remembers — leader of the infamous gang that terrorized the city. Not only a stealthy criminal but a damn smart one, a rare combination that makes him not only valuable, but extremely dangerous.

"I do honest work." His stern eyes hold his own. "Yet that will never make me an honest man. Understand?"

He almost laughs, wishes he could pull out his own fucking soul and drop it right there -festering with sin and rotting with rage - just so the man can witness with his own eyes how much he truly understands.

The retired kingpin carelessly pushes a bottle of Jack to him. "What is this information that you need, Winston?"

"Your boys in Tulsa...they still listen to you?"

Shepard hits him with a coy smirk. "They're loyal."

"Have them ask about a Johnny Cade. Anything about a fight...or rumors. Anything." His mind replays images of his battered body. A fight...it was a slaughter, a downright _mutilation_. Fury floods through his veins all over again. He tries to drown it with the Jack before it resurfaces.

"The quiet kid...the one who used to follow you around like a lost dog?"

His tone is as bitter as the whiskey they drink. "He's the kid that I'd be more than fuckin' happy to kill for. And then some."

The redeemed convict evaluates the hood with steady eyes. A strange, light smile on his face. "I'll get your information. For a fair price."

He expected nothing less but mocks, "Thought you were a changed man?"

"Changed, not charitable."

"Lucky me." He chugs from the bottle again. A part of him is grateful, truthfully. Something to keep his mind busy.

"Don't go thanking me yet, Winston. You do remember my little sister Angela, don't you?"

The hood glares at him. He heard many stories about the petite Shepard girl with her innocent doe eyes and sweet smile - yet has the teeth and claws of a hellcat and is not afraid to use them. One time he had the luxury of seeing both sides of her. Has the scar to prove it.

He sighs, face suddenly looks much older. "Look - I know where she is. All you need to do is bring her back here. She ain't exactly...compliant...but you're not entirely useless. You'll figure it out."

He thinks about Johnny.

Bloody. Bruised. Begging.

"Fine," he agrees.

"By midnight."

The hood glares, a nasty flame in his eyes. "Two fuckin' hours?"

"Three years." Knuckles pale around the neck of the bottle, squeezing, as if he could strangle the life out of it. "Curly...he was trying to impress me, be like me - I don't fuckin' know. It was stupid. He's only a kid, thinks he's tough. And three years...it don't sound like much until you're spendin' every minute trapped inside a fuckin' cage. But you already know that. He doesn't...Angela? She's smart - doesn't need to be told that her brother ain't ever gonna be the same again. Angry...such a simple word for somethin' so goddamn ugly. And like most...angry people...she thinks hurtin' herself and anyone who gives a shit about her is the solution."

"Where is she?"

His jaw ticks. "Wayne Murphy."

The Murphy gang was the only rival in Tulsa that could keep up with Shepard. Drugs and violence are their speciality.

"This just keeps gettin' better."

"We have a deal." Shepard says with a taut smile. "And in one hour I will make a phone call and then it becomes a debt. You understand?"

The hood rarely seen the business side of him. Never dealt with that, never cared to.

"Yeah, I understand."

"They're dangerous, Winston." He adds, watching him leave.

"It wouldn't be any fun if they weren't."

* * *

 **MISSING (accidentally deleted) SCENE ; WILL BE FIXED BY TOMORROW**

 _involves Wayne Murphy, the abuse Angela endured, and violence by the hands of our beloved Dallas_

 _(very graphic : expect heavy drug use, gang activity, violence, sexual abuse, and attempted rape)_

* * *

"I had it under control."

The anger has a strong chokehold on her words, eyes scorching with it, yet her features are frigid.

"That right," he mumbles, nose dripping blood onto his shirt once again and _fuck_ if that little shit broke it -

"Yeah, that _is_ right," she bites, piercing him with wild eyes that are rimmed red from tears. "And you, my prick of a brother, and anyone else who thinks otherwise can take a very long walk off a short cliff."

The hood has an innate urge to fight and a corrosive rage that could consume her own. He knows loss - knows how it can shred you apart, mess with the wires in your head until don't recognize yourself. Makes you believe you don't want to. But it is...inevitable. He wants to yell. Maybe because he has not slept in two days, or maybe because the ugliness of the world is eating him alive.

"You're wasting your time. And gas." She adds, arms crossed stubbornly. "I'm not going back to Tim. Ever."

He grinds his teeth, bloodied knuckles squeezing the wheel. He can barely feel them. "Want me to turn around, sweetheart? Take you back to Wayne? You want to be his fuckin' ragdoll, the toy he passes around to his buddies?"

She flinches, her facade finally cracking. He clenches his teeth, bites his tongue, and watches as she begins to fall apart.

"He loves me," she whispers, mostly to herself. "He said he loved me."

Before they reach the bar, he pulls the car over. Angela is catatonic, lost in thought, staring absently at the deadness of the street. A part of him wants to say fuck it - drop her off and drive away - he did his part, Tim can forge through the ruins to try and piece her back together.

Yet for some reason he finds himself there with her, drowning in the silence.

"That ain't love." His fingers gently graze the bruises on her jaw. The others, in the shape of handprints on her thighs, he glances at them. No need to point them out. "That...it ain't love, Angela."

Her body tenses. Defeated. "I know."

There was a time when he thought he knew love. It looked a lot like her - battered and used and empty. He wants to tell her it gets better. But he is not sure that it does.

He tries to help. "Your brother cares, alright? He ain't perfect but...he does care - "

She cuts him off. With the speed and stealth of a tiger she straddles him - tiny, abused thighs tight around his waist, grinding down on him.

It takes him by surprise. Truly. Completely. He refuses to touch her, would never, arms up in an awkward surrender. She is just a _kid_ , for fuck sake.

"Angela..." he says, quietly and as calm as he can manage at the moment. "Get off me. Now."

She ignores him, hastily tugs her skirt up, and ambushes his jeans, trying to undo them. "I'm real good, okay? I promise. I can make it quick. I swear, I'll be good."

He feels trapped. Disgusted. Confused. There is this sickness dwelling at the bottom of his stomach.

His mind is racing.

 _"I can make you feel good." Dry lips trail down his bare stomach, tongue licking at his skin. "Tell me...do you wanna feel good?"_

He catches her wrists, squeezes a little too tight. Feels like an animal at the zoo...locked inside a pen against their will. He seethes, "Get the fuck off me. _Now_."

She does, races back into her seat, still showing too much skin. Silent tears roll down her cheeks.

He forgets how to speak, his blood is pumping too fast with adrenaline. "Why?"

"You helped me." She clarifies, voice hollow. "I owe you."

"And you thought...that I would want sex from you?"

With an angry laugh, she asks, "Is that not what men want? How else am I suppose to repay you? I have no money. Nothing."

Her logic hurts worse than any injury he ever got in his life. It makes him want to go back to the Murphy house and burn them alive, each and every one of them.

"You don't owe me anythin'." He tells her. "You don't owe anyone shit. And even if you felt that you did...you can say thanks. And if they aren't happy with that then they can fuck off. You understand? You don't owe _anyone_ a damn thing."

They drive in silence again. His body...it feels wrong. He feels sick, so fucking sick, and he wishes he could climb out of his skin.

It is past midnight by time they get there. If Tim has a problem with it then fuck him.

Angela reaches for the handle, but hesitates. "Dallas?"

"Yeah?"

With a broken smile and tear stained cheeks she says, "Thank you."

He nods, can't find any words. He is exhausted, feels like his brain and bones are about to crumble. He held onto that last shred of sanity for so long, maybe too long, and he thinks he might lose it.

And about a mile out of town...he does.

* * *

Expect the next chapter to be very rough. Dallas...he falls apart in expected and unexpected ways. **Please comment if you want me to continue** \- not quite sure if anyone cares for this or not. Also, I have an Ao3 account ( **beerem** ) that you can check out if you are interested in reading a story about Johnny struggling with his sexuality. Hope you all are well! (:


End file.
